Imagine
watching sports primarily for the athleticism. The power, finesse, and agility
of a few choice athletes doing all kinds of impressive things on either the
field or the court that celebrates the grace and motion of the human form at
its top potential. Now imagine these same athletes refusing to cooperate with
their teammates or score. Despite your admiration for their talent, you might
grow frustrated, particularly if your team ends up losing the game.
That’s
how I generally feel after finishing one of Eddison’s novels. A Fish Dinner in Memison, book two of
the Zimiamvian Trilogy, is one such work. (Incidentally, book one, Mistress
of Mistresses, published in 1935, suffers the same fate.) Both narrative
and dialogue offers stunning, spellbinding craftsmanship in language, phrases
flowing in a poignant manner so adroitly constructed as to seduce the reader
into turning yet another page for yet more linguistic beauty. The seeming ease
with which Eddison composes his prose – prose altogether smooth, erudite,
lyrical, piercing, tender, perceptive – is unassailable. His characters feel
real. Their temperaments are convincing, their desires relatable.
But
like lots of wordsmiths of the medium, this is a writer comparable to a cellist
providing stunning finger work and other virtuosity but who lacks a song or
composition to perform. It’s with only a passing reflection I bemoan the
approach Eddison and some other talented authors employ since, focused on attending
to the cast, costumes, mannerisms, witticisms, and environment, they nonetheless
fail to provide a plot.
I
don’t dispute Eddison is a great writer, but because I would also enjoy seeing
these characters move through a story, l ultimately finish the novel somewhat
dissatisfied. If one can’t have both, I suppose it comes down to choosing
between a rusty clunker rocketing along the Audubon at breakneck speeds (your
average high-octane thriller with only serviceable writing), or a sleek,
polished Aston Martin forever in park. Of course, we’d probably all prefer an
Aston Martin rocketing along the Audubon, but if life has taught me anything,
it’s that we can’t have everything. Rated PG-13. Four out of five stars (principally
for the writing).
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